


five kisses that nearly killed george luz, for various reasons

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, OT3, Threesome - M/M/M, george luz is seduced into a sexuality crisis (and a heart attack)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 06:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11008011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: "Holy shit," is the first thing George says, because he really can't think of anything better. His mind is drawing blank, no matter how eager his tongue feels to leap out of his mouth. Everyone has heard about Speirs -- and everyone knows that kissing another guy, even by accident, is a thing that you don't do. In the army, that could get you kicked out in a heartbeat. In civilian life, you could be tossed in prison for it.And George just accidentally macked one on Killer Captain Speirs.He's a dead man.





	five kisses that nearly killed george luz, for various reasons

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

_i._

Everyone is running around, and George would be lying if he claimed to know what the hell was going on. The nights here are all the same anyway, or close enough to it. Someone must have started up some ball game, he figures, or they're showing another movie tonight. He has no desire to sit through a film he's seen at least a dozen times, so he doesn't move from his bunk and tries to focus on the letter in front of him.

It's always a treat to get mail from home. Now that they're stationed in Mourmelon (and it seems like they will be for the foreseeable future, at least until New Years) he actually can read and answer. His mother writes long, rambling letters, all in Portuguese with the occasional English phrase thrown in. It's a relief both to read the familiar language and his mother's words; in the time he's been away from home, George feared he was starting to forget the sound of both.

Now he mouths the words quietly to himself, and they are as familiar on his tongue as ever. He can imagine his mother hunched over the kitchen table with a pen during a rare moment of quiet. A few of the littles will probably be arguing over something, and some of the older girls might be playing the radio too loud, but his mother (with her amazing ability to thrive in chaos like she was born in it) will ignore it all for the time it takes her to scribble down pages of affectionate words and gossip.

In other words, it's home. Just the memory leaves a hollow pain in George's gut. He's forced to close the letter, leaving it only half-read. Most days he is able to block out the persistent homesickness, but when he lets it creep in it becomes a dark cloud above his head. Sometimes it's hard to believe he's an entire ocean away from his family -- away from Rhode Island, and the life he knew before. Looking back, everything he knew almost seems like a dream.

He slips the letter back into the bag where he keeps all the letters, and stores it under his pillow. Home doesn't belong in the middle of the war. It should be tucked away in a safe place, both in his heart and in reality. He stashes the letters, and finally forces himself out of bed to keep himself from pulling them out again.

His mother will understand if his reply comes a little late. He's pretty sure half of the letters they exchange get lost in the mail anyhow, so it's not a big deal. She'll understand.

He tells himself this as he walks out of the barracks, makes his way through the camp, and passes clusters of GIs. A few of them call out greetings to him; he waves absently, but doesn't stop. Does his family hang on to whatever correspondence they get from him the same way he does? Does his older sister miss him whenever she boxes up homemade cookies to send in one of her "care packages"? Does his youngest sister -- who was only three years old when he left, Jesus -- still remember him?

These are the thoughts he shouldn't allow in, but they are what plague him whenever he lets a piece of home in. It kills him to admit it, but maybe he's better off shoving the letters to the side -- just for a couple months, until this god-forsaken war is over. By the way things are going (even after the clusterfuck that was Holland) they'll be out before summer; then he can return to his family, and it will be like he never left. Until then, maybe it's just easier to keep thoughts from back then out. After all, here and now is what counts -- here and now is what's keeping him alive. He needs to focus on that, and the fact that he _is_ alive, and definitely _not_ on the fact that he might never get home to his family --

George is so lost in his thoughts as he turns a corner that he doesn't see the figure heading in the opposite direction. He doesn't realize he's about to crash into them until he already has, and the impact is so unexpected that his full weight falls forward.

Strong hands seize him by the ribs, steadying him; at the same time, George's arms grasp the other man's shoulders. They both fall back around the corner, hitting the side of the building with a rough grunt, and George doesn't realize what's happening until he feels his lips mashed up against something soft.

His eyes shoot open, only to be met with another dark pair -- striking green, flecked with gold, and utterly impassive. He knows those eyes.

Horrified, George breaks the liplock he'd literally fallen into and stumbles out of the unexpected embrace. In front of him, Dog Company's Captain Speirs stares at him with an unreadable expression.

"Holy _shit,"_ is the first thing George says, because he really can't think of anything better. His mind is drawing blank, no matter how eager his tongue feels to leap out of his mouth. Everyone has heard about Speirs -- and everyone knows that kissing another guy, even by accident, is a thing that you don't do. In the army, that could get you kicked out in a heartbeat. In civilian life, you could be tossed in prison for it.

And George just accidentally macked one on Killer Captain Speirs.

_He's a dead man._

"I -- I didn't mean --" he stammers, stumbling back as icy dread fills his stomach. "I didn't see you, I didn't _mean_ to -- shit, I'm _sorry --"_

Speirs takes a step forward, and George flinches back on instinct. The other man goes still.

He has no clue what he's expecting, but feeling a hand on his shoulder isn't it. Speirs's touch isn't harsh; he's almost gentle, wild as it is to admit. George looks up at the taller man, surprise evident on his face, but finds himself helpless to decipher Speirs's unreadable expression.

"Pay more attention, Private," is all Speirs says, before giving George's shoulder a light squeeze and pulling away.

That's it -- no screaming, no freakout, no threats of court martial or worse. Just a calm, borderline _amused_ order to get his head out of the clouds.

George gapes at Speirs's retreating back, trying hard to ignore the way his lips still burn. What the _hell_ was that?

Be more careful, he thinks to himself, and could almost laugh out loud. Hell, after the heart attack he almost had, he thinks he could stare down Death himself and grin in his face. Nothing could be scarier than _that._

He forces a breath through suspiciously tight lungs, and tears his eyes from the direction Speirs vanished. Maybe he'll go down to the movie after all -- he needs a damn good distraction.

 

_ii._

Bastogne is hell. It's literal hell frozen over, and George had always used that expression ironically.

Time doesn't have much meaning, he learns after a while. Days and nights sort of blend together into something inconcrete, impersonal and confusing. Rather than dark and light, George learns to track the time by shellings; if there's no bombardment for a while, it's probably okay to sleep, but certainly not to leave your foxhole.

Huddling in a foxhole is something else too, new and totally unfamiliar. These aren't the same foxholes as Normandy and Holland. There, foxholes were a tool to live. Now, foxholes _are_ life, and even that is something that can betray you in a heartbeat.

For example, a direct hit.

There are a few seconds in which all George can do is stare at it. The dud shell that landed just on the edge of his hole is embedded in the ground, dirt creating a gentle cradle around its head. Even in the darkness it is impossible to miss; George can see it clear as day. His own death, just an arm’s length away from him, close enough to reach out and touch. Death in a second that is stretched into minutes, hours, as long as he stares down the dud and hardly dares to breathe.

After a few seconds, he lights a cigarette.

(He wasn't a chain smoker before the war. He hardly even liked the things -- isn't that rich? It's just another thing war has turned him into, another way he had been twisted into a carnival-mirror reflection of himself that people back home won't recognize.)

He doesn't think to share until he feels a nudge against his arm, and his attention swivels to Lipton. The older man looks haggard, death shining in his wide eyes. He doesn't offer George a smile, not a word; he only reaches towards the cigarette. As far as George knows Lipton has never touched a cigarette before, but he doesn't think twice before detaching it from his lips and handing it over.

For a few moments it hardly feels real. George remains still, huddled against Lipton’s side as they both stare down the shell that refuses to explode. Artillery continues to detonate around them, sailing over their heads. Any second could be it. They could be blown sky-high, wiped out before they get the chance to realize what's happened, just obliterated.

George’s mind flashes back to Muck and Penkala, illuminated against a backdrop of fire. A strangled noise escapes his lips, and suddenly he can't stare at the shell any more.

He buries his head against Lipton’s chest. The other man doesn't react except to pull him closer, wrapping both arms around George’s shoulders in a tight embrace. A hand runs steady trails up and down his back; another cards through his hair with gentle fingers. He can feel everything about Lipton, from the pounding of his heart to the way his breath echoes in his chest. What little warmth there is between them belongs to them both, and George wants to be closer to it.

Without thinking, he lifts his chin up, and finds himself face to face with Lipton. Their noses are all but touching, breaths intermingled as one. It is too easy to close the gap between their lips.

George isn't sure who does it. All he knows is that suddenly there is a pressure against his mouth, and he feels warm. Warmer than he's felt in weeks; warmer than he has any right to feel in hell.

For just a moment, mortality isn't a reach away, and George is more alive than dead.

 

_iii._

Everyone wants a piece of the supply guy.

George doesn't really know why the task of managing and allocating rations has fallen into his lap, but he's sure glad it wasn't left to any one of these other bastards. Liebgott would hoard all the chocolate for himself; Popeye wouldn't share the coffee; and Heffron would probably get too generous and start passing things out to everyone. George doesn't like having to slap away too-bold hands that keep trying to grab stock that doesn't belong to them, but if someone has to do it he's glad the job’s his.

(It beats hauling around a radio twice his size, that's for sure.)

He's gotten used to people cozying up to him by now. They seem to think that just because he's in charge of supplies, he can get them whatever they feel like on a whim -- whether it's an extra pack of smokes, or a brand new pair of socks. More than one person he's never been particularly chummy with has started easing up to him since they've gotten to Hagenau, trying to weasel their way into his good graces. George, through stubbornness if not cleverness, isn't giving in to a single one of them.

He's not about to be charmed (or intimidated) into nepotism. George takes his job seriously, and he knows how important it is that supplies get where they need to be. Everyone’s exhausted after Bastogne, but no one deserves to be treated more than anyone else. (Not usually. George can make exceptions, like giving Lip a few extra blankets, or a chocolate bar for Frank. He's not a _monster.)_

When he's suddenly cornered in a stairwell on his way up to the third floor of the building they're being housed in, he's sure he knows exactly what this is.

Sure enough, his suspicions are confirmed by the determined look on Speirs’s face, and the scarily intense look in his eyes as his arm blocks George’s way. “There you are, Luz,” he says. “I need something from you.”

George’s heart drops into his stomach. Turning his friends down is bad enough; turning Speirs down is a whole new level of awful. Sure, he might be the CO of Easy now, but that doesn't make him any less terrifying. Hell, after his steel-balled rescue in Foy, the man is even more of a legend. George isn't sure he can turn Speirs away if he asks for something, just because he values his own life that much.

(There's also the lingering memory in the back of his mind, one he's tried hard to push away. That stumble around a corner could have happened a lifetime ago, but faced with Speirs’s eyes it is feels all too recent.)

He swallows hard and steels himself for whatever’s to come. “Look, Captain, I'm sorry, but I really can't give anything out --”

“That's not what I want,” Speirs says, and cuts him off by swinging an arm up and pressing George hard against the wall.

George’s breath cuts off in a choked noise at the sudden pressure of Speirs’s body against him. The other man’s chest is solid and warm; his arm pins George in place, keeping him from even thinking of escaping. _(Should_ he try to escape? Is he about to be murdered, or-- or --)

“You're held in very high regard,” says Captain Speirs, “by a lot of people.”

Christ, his voice is practically a whisper, but it's so close to George’s ear that he can hear him loud and clear. Has Speirs _always_ sounded like that?

“I'm -- glad to hear it, sir,” George replies breathlessly.

“Lipton talks about you a lot,” Speirs continues. If he weren't all but growling in George’s ear, this could be a casual conversation. “He says you're one of Easy’s best.”

“That's high praise.”

“It is,” Speirs agrees, voice trailing off into a hum. It's almost gentle when he leans in the rest of the way, closing the breath of distance between them. The moment his lips are on George’s, however, any gentleness turns into something more. He doesn't just kiss; Speirs possesses, he seizes upon foreign lips and claims them as his own. Without even knowing what happening George finds himself swept away by the teeth against his mouth, the pressure and suction, the feeling of fingers in his hair and a hand on the back of his neck. He kisses back without thinking, and when he realizes what he's doing he doesn't want to stop.

It feels good, doing this with Speirs. Hell, it feels better than anything George has gotten in a long time. All of the pent up frustration, the helplessness and anger and will to live, all packs into Speirs’s lips like a punch, and George laps up every bit of sweet nectar he can get. He doesn't know what's happening or why it's so good, but he _needs_ it.

Just as quickly, Speirs breaks off the kiss and steps back. George feels stripped bare without the pressure against his mouth. He can feel his cheeks burning, and he isn't the only one so affected. Speirs’s face is flushed; his lips are swollen, eyes clouded over with something borderline-dangerous. George swallows hard and takes a step forward, but Speirs holds up a hand as he takes a step back.

For a moment George is terrified that it is rejection, but he sees nothing like that on Speirs’s face. Instead, the other man nods his head at him and straightens up with an uncanny dignity

“You're a good soldier, Luz,” is the only thing Speirs says. “And a hell of a man.”

Just like that, he's gone. George is left alone again, with no clue what’s just happened but a desperate knot in his stomach that makes it clear that he wants more of it.

 

_iv._

““You’re in some other world,” is the first thing Lipton says to him as he settles down at his side. They're the first words George has heard for a good hour, at least -- up until that point he'd been sure he found some tiny slice of solitude. He can be forgiven if he jumps a bit, ash crumbling from the cigarette between his fingers. Even if they're among their own company, even if the war is all but over now, he's still on his guard.

“Yeah,” is all he says, offering Lipton a not-quite smile. “Guess I am.”

The other man is quiet for a moment, before he shifts next to George, arm brushing his shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts?”

It's a simple remark, but somehow it is quintessentially-Lipton -- small-town quaint, with an edge of familiarity and comfort that makes the question more gentle than prying. There’s a lot on George’s mind, so much that he hardly knows where to begin. With Lipton sitting next to him, however, he wishes he could find a place to start.

He almost tells him -- hell, he realizes, there's no reason he _couldn't_ tell Lipton what happened with Speirs. It's not as if he and Lipton are unfamiliar with each other. They've shared moments before, ones they've never addressed but both remember all the same.

Then again, that was Bastogne. In a foxhole in a frozen forest, things seemed more like a hellish fairytale than real life. When George scrounges his memories from that time, it reminds him of a bad dream -- vivid, in a terrifying way, but unreal somehow. The nightmare of Bastogne could so easily be resigned to only that were it not for how much the memories still pierce him like a knife _(blood on the snow, an obliterated foxhole, a shell half buried in the ground)._ The things that were real then -- the principles from the foxholes -- don't apply here, in the warm air of a German spring.

"Nothing, Lip," he sighs after a few seconds. "Just thinking of home, you know."

That's something any soldier can understand. Lipton nods, clapping him gently on the shoulder. "Almost there, George. Hang on a bit longer."

"What else is there to do?" He's not sure if it's a joke -- a bad one, if it is -- but they both huff soft chuckles anyway.

They’re both quiet again, listening to the sound of crickets in the night air, before Lipton breaks the silence again. “Is that all?” he presses, absently brushing a hand through his hair. “It’s just, you seem troubled.”

“It’s all that matters, Lip,” George says, and bites his tongue as if he’s said too much. There’s something pitying in Lipton’s gaze, and George hates it because he doesn’t deserve it. “I --” he starts, but stops because he knows he doesn’t want to continue. “I don’t know how to --”

“It’s okay,” Lipton says, but George shakes his head.

“I don’t know what I want. Anymore.” He feels breathless, more than a little ashamed at admitting the worst of the thoughts swirling in his head. “I thought I knew who I was and what I wanted, but now I’m not so sure. When I go back home I don’t know what the hell I’ll be bringing back with me, and everything that I’m leaving behind --”

There’s no need to clarify. George won’t ding himself longing for C-rations or the sound of gunfire. Everything means everyone.

“You’re worried you’ve changed,” Lipton says, voice low. When George looks at him, he finds Lipton’s eyes lowered in understanding.

Lipton has a wife, he remembers. He was married before they ever jumped into Normandy, before this hell started for real. Christ, how can he explain the things he’s done? The people he’s had to hurt? The ones he’s kiss --

George takes an aggressive inhale of his cigarette and glowers at the ground.

“We’re all different, George. War is an experience that shapes a man. You realize a lot you might never have known about yourself otherwise.”

“Stuff you regret,” George says with a dry laugh.

“No.”

There is a hand on his leg. George freezes up, suddenly unable to do more than stare down at it, not daring to believe it’s really there. There's no reason for Lipton to be offering him anything -- not here, out of the woods and back in the real world. If this is pity, George doesn't want it. If this is something else, George does want it, and that scares him even more. There’s no reason for that hand to slowly be creeping up his thigh, no reason at all --

“Hang on,” George says suddenly, placing a hand on top of Lipton’s own to still him. “I can't do this, not unless I know --”

Lipton starts to draw away, but George has ahold of his hand now, and won't let him go. “You've gotta tell me what this is. What we're doing. Is this something, really? We aren't in a damn foxhole now. Be honest with me, Lip, are you and I wanting the same things here?”

Lipton looks like he's fighting a smile, and George wants to kiss it right off his face. “I'd say we are.”

“Am I --” George swallows hard, because he can't be dishonest right now. “You aren't the only one. Am I… the only one, for you?”

He doesn't mean women, and they both know it. Lipton’s mouth goes tense at the corners, like he expects his answer will change anything, before he shakes his head. “No, George. There's one other person. And I… care for him, but I care for you too.”

“That's okay,” George says breathlessly. It doesn't change a thing. He wants this. He needs this, Jesus, he _needs_ this.

He lets go of Lipton’s hand, but he doesn't give him the chance to make a move. This time George knows who closes the distance, and he hears Lipton’s soft grunt as lips slam into his. It's not a graceful kiss by any means -- George is all eagerness, passion and an excitement he can't pinpoint -- but Lipton is far more patient, and a natural teacher.

No one is going to find them for a while. They have all the time they need, and they're going to make the best of it.

 

_v._

All George is trying to do is find out where Captain Speirs has gone.

Their current CO has nothing on Dike’s habit of wandering off, but Speirs is an entity all of his own. His whereabouts are impossible to track; one second he's here, the next second he's there, and he comes and goes as he likes. He has a habit of creeping up on people, eerily silent until he makes his presence known. If he's bored with a conversation, he won't hesitate to leave it. Some of the men swear he's summoned by gossip about him, or maybe the sound of his own name.

George wishes finding Speirs could be as easy as changing his name in a mirror three times. It would save him a lot of running around, trying to carry messages back and forth to a commander who’s never where everyone thinks he's going to be. Speirs isn't unreliable, he's just a hard man to find. The damn war is finally over, and George is tired of running -- after Krauts, or missing officers.

He isn't sure who finally mentions the wine cellar, or if anyone mentions it at all -- maybe he figures it out on his own through a desperate process of elimination. It's the only explanation, because no one goes down in the cellar of the house they're boarded up in. Once no alcohol was discovered down there, the dark, isolated atmosphere lost its appeal to any soldier with an ounce of sense, and they've all taken to avoiding the place. George never even went down to the cellar, but he heard tell that it was creepy. Sound didn't travel, light was dim, and it felt like more of an underground bunker than a basement.

Creepy and isolated -- exactly Speirs’s kind of haunt.

George has been looking for the captain long enough that he doesn't even hesitate before charging down the steps, message clutched in his hands. There is a long hallway paved with stone, no light creeping in from the upper levels. Every one of George’s better instincts tells him to avoid dark basement passages, but he doubts Speirs has the same good sense.

So he forces himself down the corridor, resolutely not thinking of what could be at the end, until he comes to a door. There is a hint of light filtering out near the bottom of the door, casting shadows on the stone floor. He only fumbles for a second before his hand finds the knob, and he opens the door without thinking to knock.

This is a mistake.

“Jesus Christ!” George spits out, and that's _before_ he realizes what he's looking at. There are two figures wrapped together, unclothed torsos and bare arms twining around each other’s bodies. One is sitting on a table, while the other has his head buried in the crook of his partner’s neck. They both seem very occupied, and not expecting to be interrupted at all.

He's all but ready to slam the door closed again when his brain connects the two people with faces in his head. At once, his body seems to freeze. He hasn't just stumbled upon two strangers -- these are men that he knows well.

“Lip?” he gapes, unable to believe it. “Captain Speirs?”

 _Well, damn,_ he thinks, because even though he knew he wasn't the only one for Lipton it somehow never crossed his mind that the other person could be Speirs. How much of an idiot was he? Speirs all but picked up George and hurled him headfirst into a sexuality crisis. That he could have done the same for Lipton is a no-brainer, but something inside George twists to see these two together.

 _(Without you,_ a traitorous voice in his head whispers.)

Lipton and Speirs finally pull their faces apart long enough to take George in. Lipton hooks his chin over the other man’s shoulder and regards the intruder mildly. “Luz, close the door, would you?”

“And your mouth, before something crawls in it and dies,” Speirs adds. Then, extending an arm as if it's no more than a casual gesture, he adds, “Aren't you coming in?”

Wait -- _what?_

“Hold on, hold on,” George says, voice rising a few octaves in his shock. “You mean -- you're saying you want me here? To -- to join you? You want me in on this? Are you -- is that what's going on here, or am I crazy? Cause I feel like I'm going crazy!”

Despite the bright red hickey on his neck, Speirs looks remarkably unashamed. "We've been wondering when you'd finally catch on."

The damn message had come from Speirs himself. This was a _setup._

George gapes, taking a step back. This is all too much, too fast -- but it isn't really fast, is it? This has been building for a while.

Christ, how did he not figure it out sooner?

Lipton notices his hesitation (of course he does, George must look like a skittish deer) because he turns towards him. There's that same kind look on his face, the one George associates with him making sure everybody has food and a place to sleep for the night. Understanding, and too damn nice for his own good. "It's only if you want to," he says. "We know it's... unconventional."

Unconventional? George can think of a few words damn more descriptive than that. They might help this situation make more sense, too, but for the moment _unconventional_ is the only word his brain can seize on (that, and the swollen flush of both Lipton and Speirs's lips).

This isn't what he thought he was getting into -- what did he think he was getting into? What does he want at all?

He meets Speirs and Lipton’s expectant gazes, and decides: _aw, hell._

It's not like he hasn't had both of those bodies pressed up against his before. He's tasted both of their mouths; he's laid a claim on them, and they on him. He belongs here. What does he have to lose that he hasn't already risked, that they aren't risking as well?

If there's ever a time to do this, it's here. They aren't facing enemy fire or the question of the unknown. They know exactly where they are and where they'll go from here. The war is over. Home is within closer reach than death, and they've been through so much that this --

This isn't a risk at all. This is everything, but it's nothing to be afraid of.

George doesn't have to think before he steps into the room. The door shuts behind him with a heavy thud, but he's moving towards Lipton and Speirs before it closes completely. Lipton is already holding out an arm; George gives himself to it, and allows himself to be pulled into an embrace.

The other man presses his face into the hollow of George’s neck. “I'm glad,” he whispers. “You should be here.”

“Hell, Lip, I'd be disappointed if I wasn't invited to the party.”

Lipton lathers kisses across his neck while Speirs tears himself away for just a second. George sees him do something to the doorknob, hears a lock click into place. A sense of tension he hadn't realized he was harboring faded away.

When Speirs returns, he wastes no time capturing George’s lips with his own. This time he is kissed back just as intensely, with an added nip of eagerness that has to other man’s eyes going wide. He pulls back and smirks, causing something hot to boil in the pit of George’s stomach.

“You're not surprised, then?” murmurs Speirs. George grins up at him, debauched and unashamed.

“I'm figuring it out as I go.”

When Speirs leans in again, George doesn't hesitate to kiss back. Lipton’s hands are slowly unbuttoning his uniform; Speirs’s long fingers run through his hair; their mouths are warm against his skin.

Death has followed them through hell and back. In this moment, however, George thinks his touch in the rapid pulse of his heart is a far more welcome friend than artillery and bullets.

If he ever has to die, then jesus, this is the most glorious way to go.


End file.
